


Shouldn't be a good in goodbye.

by deer_stalker



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deer_stalker/pseuds/deer_stalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach, John's alone, what would you do if your best friend was dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shouldn't be a good in goodbye.

Goodbye, John.

It was months after Sherlock's fall. Sherlock's death; his best friend's death. John couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, or slept, or even moved from his former flat-mate's bed. Sleeping there brought some sort of comfort, however minor it was. The dark room still faintly smelled like Sherlock; a mixture of wood, nicotine, and dangerous fumes. The heating hadn't yet kicked in, and John pulled the heavy duvet closer around his body, frailer and thinner than the last time he'd seen his best friend.  
Mrs Hudson, dear Mrs Hudson, had catered to his every whim. Every day she would visit, softly knock on his door -no, their door- only to find John curled up in some obscure place, after giving in to unconsciousness from the night before. Every time she saw him, she would wake him up with a cup of tea, shush him softly, and then hold him while the tears fell. She had played a huge part in his life, in Sherlock's too, and even now, months after his death, she continued to play her role as the only motherly figure in his life. The silence around them comforted John, and after several hours of back-rubs and hand-squeezing, the tears ceased.  
“T-thanks..” he managed to choke out, stifling another sob. He tried to crack a smile at her, only resulting in what he knew would be a grimace. Without a word, she patted him on the head, boiled the kettle for a second time, and left to return to her flat. John got up off the hard, cold floor and immediately regretted falling asleep on it. His body ached, his bones cracked, but his heart yearned for something more.  
No, someone more.  
He poured his tea, unintentionally shaking like an unstable man and spilling the boiling hot liquid all over the bench, then allowed it to cool rather impatiently. After the.. fall, his limp had returned, almost days after it had happened, and since then he hadn't been able to shift it. He paced the living room of the flat, the flat which he had once shared with his best friend, the flat that had never been altered since Sherlock's death, and still had piles of his paper work in desperate attempts to bring him back. Setting the cane down, John collapsed into his seat, soft leather, cool against his back in the late hours of the night. He stared at the chair opposite him; worn, faded, smelling of musk and hydrochloric acid. Longing for his best friend, he downed the tea, not quite caring that it burnt the edges of his throat, and did minor damage to the taste buds on his tongue. He only had one place in mind, and knew he couldn't rest until he got there.

It was near around 12:30am when John reached the graveyard, and then about ten minutes on top of that until he found Sherlock's gravestone. Despite the darkness that was lulling over London just past midnight, John could find his way to the gravestone easily, after having learnt the route through the graveyard upon his fifth visit.  
There it stood, tall, dark, and looming -rather like Sherlock himself- by the equally tall tree. He had managed to compose himself in front of the cabbie, and the drunks that were stumbling past him in the street, but when he finally reached the headstone, John collapsed completely, letting his sobs ricochet around his chest, and curled up into a ball at the foot of the grave. He hold on to the stone for support; to stop the world from spinning, and felt the cold, moist soil crumble beneath him. The night was fairly cold, and as he pulled him coat closer around him, John's body once again gave into sleep.

The bright, garish sunlight causes John to wake, and admittedly gave his head some time to unscramble itself and remember where he was. In the same, curled up foetal-position by Sherlock's grave, John began to cry again, shifting his weight so he is kneeling down, resting his forehead against the cool granite used to make the gravestone. He mutters a few cuss words under his breath at the uncomfortable position he slept in, then gripped tightly onto the stone to steady himself.  
“Sherlock.. what's that? The sixth time I fell asleep at your grave this month? And it's only the fourteenth... that must be a new record. I.. I miss you,” he gripped tighter, causing his knuckles to turn white, “I just can't.. I can't do it. B-but it's alright... 'cause I'm coming. I guess I'll.. see you soon-” John was cut off by the sound of a mobile phone text-tone sounding behind him. He cursed under his breath, disrespectful little sod texting his friends in a bloody graveyard, typical, absolutely typical. If Sherlock was here, well.. If Sherlock was here.. Mustering up enough courage to turn and scream at the insensitive person behind them, he found there was nobody there. Nothing. Just a faint breeze that blew the faint smell of Sherlock into John's lungs. He got up, kissed the gravestone, brushed the remaining dirt off him and made his way to the main road, and after calling for a cab found himself at the door of St Bart's. 

“It's been a while..” John muttered under his breath, before heading in and going straight to the stairs. He took three at a time, running as fast as his legs could go, and remembered all of the times Sherlock would have mocked his height. Oh, how he longed to hear his voice again, anything would do, even an insult, even telling him he hated him... Well, maybe not, he thought again to himself.  
Upon reaching the roof of the hospital, John imagined how Sherlock would have felt, putting himself in his best friend's situation, trying to experience the thoughts going through his mind. He couldn't. After all, he was only John Watson. He shuffled closer to the edge, seeing the crowds of people below. They didn't even know he was there, and hell, they probably wouldn't even realise until his body came in contact with the pavement in a few short deadly minutes. John chuckled angrily to himself, “It's beautiful, isn't it, Sherlock. So beautiful. Why did you have to die, Sherlock? Why? I'll see you soon, wait up for me...” his voice trailed off, a single tear rolled down his cheek, he stepped onto the ledge.  
“You took my hand, and my whole life... you insufferable git.”  
And with that, John Watson jumped to his death.  
Well, at least he tried to.

_______________________

Falling isn't a problem. It's what everybody imagines flying to be like, just with less control and probably a lot scarier, it's the falling that you've got to be wary of. When John fell, he imagined to see his life flash before his life, like so many films insinuate, but instead he saw pictures of Sherlock's face (or maybe that was because Sherlock had became his life now, he wasn't sure, he had a lot more important things on his mind to think of) flashing before his eyes, his alabaster skin, his perfectly formed lips, his mysterious coat and scarf combo, and then-  
No crunch.  
No snapping of bones. Well, one rib, but no skulls cracking, no major split arteries, nothing that John's medical mind would class as 'fatal'. The ground, well, what he took as being the ground, came far too quickly on impact with his body, only he didn't land on his body, he landed on top of someone else. And then it all fell to pieces.

_______________________

Sherlock had received a call from his brother only half an hour earlier.  
“What is it, Mycroft? I'm busy. There's only one more to get,” he said angrily, agitated that his brother had even contemplated ringing him when he knew how close he was to finally dismantling the web. Moriarty's web.  
“It's John.” was the response.  
“It's- wait, is he alright? Mycroft, answer me. Is. John. All. Right?” he demanded, practically screaming down the phone. If he didn't answer soon, Moran would be getting away, and the three-month-long hunt for the most dangerous sniper in London would have to start again.  
“He's asleep at your grave, again, Sherlock, again. This is the sixth time my cameras have found him there. Stop this. Stop what you're doing and-” Mycroft began pleading, cut off abruptly by the sound of a gunshot and a bullet whistling it's way through the air. The sound of it reaching it's target, throwing the man back, and killing him could not be heard, but the silence spoke volumes.  
“It's done.” Sherlock said calmly, slamming open the door and hailing a taxi, furiously typing out messages at immense speeds that would make John Watson envy. The taxi stopped dead, the same position that his best friend had been a year before, and he sprinted towards the hospital, the faint outline of his shorter friend already visible near the edges, but not quite dangerously. Having the advantage of longer legs, Sherlock was able to take the stairs nearly five at a time, scurrying up them and slamming the roof door open, only to see the all-too familiar silhouette of a man on a roof. Only this time, the man wasn't trying to kill him. Or at least, he hoped he wasn't. Sherlock ran forwards, in fear that words would only scare John further and literally 'push him over the edge', and wrapped his arms around his waist, in a desperate bid for hope that he wouldn't push them both over. His best friend has lost a substantial amount of weight over the last three years, and pulling him back was easy, with both of them landing with a loud 'thud' and a small groan from Sherlock, who had taken most of the impact. "Is this it, then? Sherlock? Is that you? Oh, it's okay, you're here, is heaven good then?" he asked, looking a bit dazed and frankly a bit disappointed that 'heaven' looked identical to the roof of St. Bart's. "I'm taking it this isn't bloody heaven-" he said, cut off abruptly by the prospect of Sherlock Holmes -Sherlock Holmes who he had watched jump off this roof three years ago- standing in front of him. "So, either I'm dead, or I've lost it," John concluded.  


**Author's Note:**

> So, chapter 1 is finished, please leave any comments!


End file.
